


Doctor's Orders

by Bluebellstar



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 08:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21133625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellstar/pseuds/Bluebellstar
Summary: Malcolm is in Motherwell for Christmas. And he doesn't like it. But then he does.





	Doctor's Orders

**Author's Note:**

> I don't honestly know. This came to me and i wrote it down because it wouldn't let me sleep.
> 
> It's rubbish really, but I wanted to at least post something here.
> 
> This is my first foray into writing for this fandom despite loitering here for ages. And it's also my first one shot.
> 
> I'm not sure I got the characterisations right, but I tried.
> 
> Oh, and apologies for the awful title - it's 2:00am here and I had to choose something.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy my attempt at Christmas fluff even though it's not even December.

Malcolm leaned against the cold wall of the house, breathing in the cold winter air. Inside, a party was raging, Motherwell rules. The Tennents was swilled like Irn Bru, chased down with unhealthy lungfuls of smoke and drams of whiskey. There was no use lecturing that lot about the dangers of mixing alcohol; you'd soon get a pool cue somewhere unpleasant and a pint glass in the face. Carols drifted on the wind from the bottom of the street, off-key but somehow right despite that. The night was cold and clear, the temperature hinting at the snowfall that had been forecast but hadn't fallen for the past week. He shivered a little, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his coat. Malcolm scowled. The years had made him go soft, too used to London winters, too busy to return home even at this time of year. He'd be in London now if he could, monitoring Nicola's family celebrations, Fatty's diet, Geoff Holhurst's Don't Drink and Drive Christmas campaign (more fourth sector bollocks, but it was the best they had at short notice). Lord only knew what Julius was getting up to with Malcolm out of the country, probably more blue sky twattery that he'd have to yell at the smug fucker about before spending his first week back sorting the fuck out. Long fingers caressed the BlackBerry in his pocket. It wouldn't take that long just to check, just to make sure that the country hadn't gone to fuck in the two days he'd been away. Nobody would even have to know about it. But no, he'd promised, and sometimes it felt like his word was all he had left to recommend himself. He distracted himself by glaring at the neighbours' fucking atrocious Christmas decorations, imagining creative scenarios where he could employ them in terrifying the inept DoSAC staff into compliance. Leaving Ollie Reeder halfway shoved into one of the big fucking chimeys at Battersea was too tempting to dwell on for long - useless Oxbridge twat. The thing was, you see, Malcolm just didn't know how to relax. Any other fucking year, and he could still be in London, haunting the corridors of Whitehall like the Ghost of Christmas vengeance. But here he was... On holiday. There was only one fucking reason for that, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

Two weeks ago, he'd caught a particularly nasty variation of the cold (his legendary hatred for any time whatsoever away from work, and his detestation of the public school wankers known as doctors left him open to catching the virus). After virtually coughing up a lung during a particularly satisfying bollocking at the ineptitude of DoSAC (a-fucking-gain), Sam, dear sweet well meaning Sam, had manipulated him into going to the GP. By manipulate, Malcolm meant that she'd gone behind his back and told Jamie. A low fucking blow by anyone's account. The wee psycho had dragged him there kicking and screaming, and had spent the entire drive home smiling smugly when the money grubbing quack had insisted on Malcolm getting some 'fresh air' 'away from London'. And so, here he was; in Motherwell, at Christmas. Fan-fucking-tastic. Jamie's family were much like Jamie himself: loud, terrifying, ferocious, and single-mindedly bloody loyal. Malcolm liked them, of course he did, but they were a lot to handle, and he was still fighting off the last dregs of weakness from his incapacitation. Not that anyone would dare mention that to his face, or breathe a word of it to Jamie. Tonight's festivities were particularly trying. He just needed a wee break. Unfortunately, his break had been going for about an hour now, and his breath was getting foggier in front of him.

A loud surge of laughter burst from the house as the door opened. Malcolm closed his eyes. His peace and quiet was at an end. "Come the fuck inside, Malc. Ye'll catch yer fuckin' death out here."  
"Aye, and it'll be your fucking fault for dragging me up here in the first place" Malcolm glared, turning blazing grey eyes on the diminutive psycho beside him. Jamie smirked innocently, wide blue eyes dancing with glee. His anger only ever turned Jamie on. It was incredibly fucking inconvenient, but it was also one of the reasons why he liked the wee fucker so much. His next scathing sentence was cut off by a sharp gust of wind and his full-body shudder. He turned his face away, hiding the cough that rippled on its heels.  
"Daft cunt" Jamie affectionately muttered, pressing a hot mug of strong honeyed tea into his hands. After that, Malcolm really had no choice but to join him in the candlelit kitchen, the sounds MacDonald Christmas Eve gathering muted in the background.

Jamie cheerfully brought him back up to speed on everything going on in the MacDonald clan, talking a mile a minute about 'oor Bridget' and her job at the Herald, and about how his brother Robbie's wife Claire was having another bairn. All the little things that got buried in all the eggs of solid fuck that came with running the country. Malcolm, for once, was content just to listen; the last of his unspoken tension melting into the gentle tones of Jamie's heavy Lanarkshire accent. At some point, Jamie reached forward and threaded their fingers together, and absently started stroking back and forth. Malcolm's skin tingled where Jamie's thumb brushed over his ring. Nothing about this, about them, was new, not really. This wasn't the first Christmas he'd spent in Motherwell, and it wouldn't be the last. And when Jamie broke off complaining about his brother Caillan (the black sheep of the MacDonald clan) to kiss him softly, Malcolm almost felt glad to be away from London. Almost.

As he settled into bed later that night, Jamie's heat keeping him warmer than a furnace, Malcolm spontaneously decided that having a break every now and then wasn't so bad. He might be tempted to do it again next year. Then again, he considered, listening to Caillan coming in drunk downstairs, Isla giving him a thorough bollocking, he might not. Jamie grumbled an unintelligible curse against his brother, arm coming to wrap more securely around Malcolm's body. "Merry Christmas, Darlin." And there, in that moment, Malcolm couldn't have given a fuck if the government was falling around their ears. He was here, with his husband, at Christmas. That was all that fucking mattered. Politics could get tae fuck.  
"Merry Christmas, Jamie."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
